Missing, Alternate Ending
by travln1
Summary: Post Wilson's Heart, *SPOILERS* House goes missing. He and Wilson are no longer speaking. House is unable to speak but discovers a new puzzle to solve. Alternate ending to the original one shot, "Missing".
1. Chapter 1

Spoilers through season 4's finale. So many folks are writing post-Wilson's Heart fics, thought I'd give it a shot too. I liked the first version of this story up until a certain point and I don't care for the ending, so I thought I'd give it another go (I have a bad habit of rewriting the endings I guess). The story is the same as the first "Missing" up until a certain point, but this version has an alternate ending.

"**Missing" Alternate Ending**

"Where's House?" Cuddy asked, walking into the conference room.

Foreman shook his head, "I thought you picked him up this morning."

"I stopped by, but he didn't answer. I thought he caught a ride in with you. Did you call him?" Cuddy asked.

"And what? Ask him to tap the phone in Morse code?"

Cuddy stared at Foreman, closing her eyes briefly as she realized the weight of his words. House hadn't uttered a single word since he came out of his coma and tried to whisper whatever it was he tried to whisper that fateful day.

"If he'd answered, we'd know if he was alive or not."

She walked with set determination over to House's desk, thumbing through piles of paperwork, hoping to find something, anything that might lead to his whereabouts. House had been back to work less than three days and now Cuddy began to wonder if it was too soon. Against Foreman's strong advice, she had allowed House to return under strict rules; several breaks a day, he was not to be left alone for long periods, he was not allowed to stand at the whiteboard and he was not to drive anywhere. By law, his seizure forced the temporary suspension of his license anyway. Cuddy had stayed at his place up until a few days before his return, when he finally kicked her out. House could only take so much mothering and despite his not quite healed skull, Cuddy left with strict orders for him to text her for absolutely anything. She and Foreman acted as his chauffeur, and she alone was his cook, his maid and if he could have talked, she would have been his confidant. And yet, House had not yet said a single word since his feeble attempt shortly after waking up from his coma, nor did he write anything about it to express himself. His written words were generally short and most often work related.

House had remained in hospital for nearly two and half weeks following his seizure, the last several days really weren't necessary, but Cuddy insisted and he didn't resist. He didn't resist anything. He ate whatever food was brought to him, he never once made a face or complained when the therapists came in to work with him. He was up and walking around within a week, refusing to be confined to the bed all day, but that was the extent of his stubbornness. Cuddy would sit and watch him, wondering where his will had gone, wondering where that spark could be, wondering why he permitted her to hold his hand every day without pulling back or flinching away. She wondered if he'd ever recover his personality or if he would remain this quiet ghost of a man, a man who once resisted absolutely everything and now, resisted nothing. He allowed doctors and nurses to fuss over him with nothing more than a distant look on his face. Visitors came and went and though he rarely acknowledged their presence, he didn't fight visits either. His former fellows visited once in a while, Chase the least often, guilt ridden. Wilson of course, hadn't stepped foot anywhere near House, since that fateful day. And House never asked for him, or for anyone else. She made it a point to visit him every day, to let him know he was not alone, but she strongly felt the effort went unnoticed. It was then that Cuddy decided she needed to get House back to work as soon as possible, back to exercising his mind, his wit, his intelligence, his need to solve puzzles. So, once he was home, she talked him into returning to work. Again, he didn't fight it, he just agreed passively.

Cuddy sat in his desk chair, and held up the mini whiteboard House now used as his mouthpiece. It was wiped clean, nothing on it to indicate where he had gone. For all she knew, he could be at home, he could be in the restroom down the hall, he could be…well, she didn't want to think about where he could be.

"Maybe he's in the clinic?" Foreman suggested not looking away from the symptoms listed on the whiteboard, marker in hand.

She stood and turned to leave, nodding, "Maybe."

"I told you it was too soon. He has a cracked skull that hasn't fully healed."

"Would you rather he sit at home contemplating suicide?" She asked, daring Foreman to turn and face her.

Foreman shot her a sharp look, "Yeah Cuddy, because I want him to commit suicide." He said sarcastically.

"If you see him, tell him I want a word with him."

* * *

Cuddy approached Taub in the clinic, "Is House here with you?"

"No, haven't seen him."

"Where are Kutner and Hadley?"

"Lab."

* * *

She could see from outside the lab that House was not there either, but she entered anyway, hoping the two youngest fellows would know where he might be.

"House isn't here." Hadley said, not looking up from her work.

Cuddy placed one heel inside the room, pivoted and headed back the way she came when Kutner called out, "I'm nearly finished here, I could run over to his place if you want."

"Thank you." She said, not turning back.

* * *

The click clack of her heels echoed down the hall as she retreated from the clinic, heading towards the stairwell. Cuddy ran through all the possibilities once again. He's not in his office, the lab, the clinic, Kutner's checking his apartment. Where else could House be? And then a distinct possibility occurred to her, food.

Cuddy made her way to the cafeteria and looked around hopefully. She glanced at the food stations, the cashier stand, the salad bar and as she peered out over the various tables, a pang of sorrow coursed through her veins. There, in the far corner sat Wilson. Head down, a hardly touched salad pushed to the side, gaze intent on a nearly full glass of iced tea. Long gone were the days she would walk in to find the two former friends seated together mid laugh, House smirking while snatching food from Wilson's plate, or the look of mocked annoyance coming from Wilson at House's act of thievery. They no longer so much as glanced at one another, much less conversed, waved, nodded, cared.

She quickly poured herself a cup of coffee, paid and headed towards Wilson's table; the coffee a simple excuse to sit near him, talk with him, hope for him. She approached his table with a carefully constructed half smile gracing her face; it was neither patronizing, nor false, though it lacked true happiness and was laced with a dash of caution. She forced herself to appear content, calm, normal, or at least as normal as normal could be in this new altered realm of loss.

Wilson looked up from his seemingly interesting tea, nodded briefly and waited for Cuddy to sit down.

"Hey." She said.

"Hi."

Knowing she dare not mention House, nor his absence, Cuddy tried to keep the conversation simple, "Board meeting tomorrow at nine."

"I'll be there."

"You should eat." She said, motioning towards the salad.

"Not hungry."

"You've lost weight." So much for keeping the conversation simple. It was a statement she could not deny, Wilson had lost close to twenty pounds in the month since it happened. Cuddy closed her eyes, finally realizing what day it was. One month. One month, exactly.

She looked at him, willing him to meet her gaze. With a sigh, he looked her in the eye, nodding almost imperceptibly.

"You should take some time off."

Wilson shook his head, "Can't."

"We could get someone to cover yo…"

He cut her off, "No, I mean I can't just sit in that hotel room all day. I need to be here. I need to work."

Cuddy wanted so much to tell him to talk with House, to forgive. She had tried twice before; the last only a week prior, with the yelling match leaving her in tears, a wall in the clinic dented from his fist and Wilson beet red and in need of a sedative. She opened her mouth trying to find a way to ask without asking about House but couldn't bring herself to do it. When it came to mentioning his name, she just didn't dare utter a word on the subject, not even when it came to wondering his whereabouts, wondering if he was okay, wondering if he was alive.

Wilson watched her internal struggle, knowing whatever words rested on the tip of her tongue had to have been about _him_. And without so much as a word, Wilson stood and headed back towards his office.

* * *

"Hello?" She answered.

"Dr. Cuddy? It's Kutner. He's not here but his bike and car are."

"Okay, thanks." She said before hanging up.

Cuddy stared at the paper perched on her office desk, picked up the phone and dialed the first number in a long list of local and not so local ER's.

* * *

"Where could House be?" Hadley asked, taking a seat nearest the whiteboard.

"No idea. Let's focus on the patient. Lab results?" Foreman said.

"All negative." She replied, "Kutner called me a few minutes ago. House isn't at his place, but both his bike and car are there."

"We need to work up our patient since he's not here. Let Cuddy worry about him." Foreman said, annoyed.

Taub looked up at Foreman, somewhat in disgust, "Do you have any idea what today is?"

"Uh, Tuesday?" Foreman replied, somewhat sarcastically.

"It happened one month ago _today_."

Foreman closed his eyes guiltily, having not remembered the anniversary. With a sigh, he said, "Okay, let's figure this patient out and then we'll look for him. Deal?"

Hadley and Taub both nodded in agreement.

* * *

He placed the cane on the first step and looked up, half expecting to see a familiar face, but it was a new driver, just as it had been the day before and the day before that, and the day before that. Always at a different time, usually late in the evening, he would find himself climbing those stairs, so familiar yet so foreign, just as he had that horrific night. He slowly climbed up, deposited the money into the receptacle and walked back to his seat. The same seat. The same smells. The same metal bars above running from front to back and occasionally from floor to ceiling. The same route, though in reverse this time.

He rode mindlessly, hoping, wishing, pleading, wanting a garbage truck, or a semi, or a slick banana peel, anything, to cause the bus to crash. But no matter how much he wished he could relive that moment, back to the instant in which he should have died, wished he had died, it never happened. It wouldn't happen. Fate dealt him the winning cards in a game of solitaire; there he sat alone on that bus, no one sitting to his right, not her. Not anymore.

And then there it was. He watched as the intersection that divided his life, passed him by, refusing to open its jaws once more, refusing to consume the bus and all on board as it had exactly one month before. And then it was gone, a memory, a moment, an instant. Just like her. And though he was not on the bus, he too was gone. She took his heart, leaving only a skeletal shell behind. And House was left alone.

* * *

"There." Hadley said, pointing at he scan.

Kutner stood, "I'll get Wilson."

Moments later, Wilson walked in warily, unwilling to face _him_. Glancing around the room he noted _he_ was no where to be found and he relaxed. Wilson walked over to the light board and immediately saw the cancer Hadley had pointed to only moments earlier.

"I've got it." He said, snatching the scan from the light board and reviewing the file as he walked away.

"Okay," Taub said, turning towards his co-workers, "I'll check out the bars near his place."

"I'll stay here and check out his usual hiding places." Hadley said, removing her lab coat.

The team headed towards the stairwell, and from the rear of the pack, Kutner said, "I'll check with the OTB parlor and the local liquor stores."

"We'll find him," Foreman said, facing the team, "I'll check in with Cameron and Chase, see if they've seen him and then I'll check the park. Cuddy's still checking with other local hospitals." The team turned the corner and descended the stairs.

Wilson stood outside his office, chart still in hand, silently watching them disappear.

* * *

"Thank you, yes, I'd appreciate it if you could let us know if he's brought in." Cuddy said shortly before hanging up the phone.

Wilson stood in her doorway, indifferent to her business, knowing it was about _him_. Knowing _he_ was off somewhere causing yet someone else to worry about _him_, to look for _him_, to venture out because of _him_.

Cuddy looked up from her desk, her tired eyes not quite meeting his, "Hi Wilson."

"I've decided to take a half day."

She nodded, "You should. Get some rest."

"Were you going to tell me?"

She eyed him, "He'll turn up. Always does."

"I'm not looking for _him_. _He's_ not my responsibility anymore."

"I know."

* * *

House limped the three blocks down and one block across slowly, methodically. Soon, the grass greeted his cane and he found himself passing row after row after row. Rows of what once was. Rows of former mothers, fathers, children, friends, lovers. Rows of life now extinguished.

He knew full well what day it was. He counted down the days one by one, keeping the tally locked within the vast expanse of his muted mind. And there, beneath the fresh green shoots not quite covering the length of the grave, he found her. He wasn't sure what he was doing there. They weren't friends, they weren't lovers. They weren't even co-workers. Just two people whose lives crossed paths briefly, unfortunately. Star crossed likely-would-have-been-best-friend-in-laws who now shared certain truths in common, a violent crash which left him mute, her dead and Wilson distant.

He removed his backpack, and carefully withdrew a single white rose; white, signifying remembrance. Feeling somewhat awkward, he placed the rose on top of her headstone, stood, closed his eyes and tried to apologize, but no words came. He leaned heavily on his cane, centered in front of him, unable to speak, unable to bring himself to access the speech center of his brain, unable to verbalize any of it. And when he opened his eyes, he didn't bother to swipe at the fresh tears now gracing his cheeks.

House popped two vicodin, turned back towards the road and limped heavily towards the pavement, not noticing the man leaning against the car, watching, waiting. As he neared the road, he looked up and saw Wilson there, completely unaware he'd had an audience. He placed his hands up defensively, shook his head, tucked his chin and moved towards the opposite side, avoiding both Wilson's gaze and path. And House continued on towards the road, over one block and down three, leaving Wilson to grieve at Amber's grave.

* * *

Wilson sat on his knees for more than an hour, staring at the rose while talking to her, whispering to her, wishing their lives had not taken such a turn. He tried to imagine what she would have said, what they might have done that day, what restaurant they would have frequented that evening. When his toes were numb and his knees weak, he sighed, pulled out his cell phone and sent Cuddy a brief text message.

"Call off search. Found alive."

Wilson stood, his heart perhaps slightly softer than it had been just over an hour ago, though no less lonely. He got into his car and drove aimlessly while nearly convincing himself that he was not actually looking for _him_. Wondering where _he_ may have limped off to, wondering where _his_ bike or _his_ car might be.

A short while later, he found himself pulling his car into the small parking lot behind the bar. The bar _he_ got drunk at. The bar she had to visit. The bar that would be her downfall. And he sat, watching the main road from the side mirror, watching as a bus stopped across the street, delivering passengers and boarding new victims.

He snatched the keys and ran towards the bus, hoping to see her, wishing he could have been on that bus, wishing he had been home to intercept that fated phone call, wishing for what could never be.

He waved at the bus driver to wait and he poked his head in, looking towards the rear of the bus, but she was not there. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He shook his head, not comprehending what he himself could have possibly been thinking. Wilson wondered if he was beginning to lose his mind.

Walking back towards the stairs, he stepped down and watched as the bus doors closed and the bus continued on towards its next stop. Wilson crossed the road and entered the bar. The same bar. He slapped a twenty on the counter and said, "Scotch."

Turning on the bar stool to look around the bar, he searched their faces hoping to find hers. And upon not finding what he so wanted, he turned his attention to the windows, to the bus stop off in the distance. He downed the drink, placed the glass down on the bar and again headed towards the bus stop. Wilson sat on the bench and waited for the next one to arrive. When it did, he boarded, handed over the fare and chin down, walked back towards the seat he knew she had occupied that night. He looked up, hoping to find it empty and when he did, his eyes fell upon _him_, seated opposite her seat, _his_ lips drawn tight, eyes seemingly sunken in, gaze not quite meeting his, not daring to make that connection.

Wilson silently sat in her seat, eyes facing forward, sitting opposite _him_ and _he_ too stared straight ahead. Wilson watched _him_ from the corner of his eye, daring _him_ to look, daring _him_ to stand and walk away, daring _him_ to throw something, daring _him_ to raise _his_ cane threateningly, daring _him_ to be just as angry as he was, daring _him_ to be infuriated with Wilson as _he_ should be for abandoning _him_ when _he_ needed him most, daring _him_ to yell about insisting on that damned deep brain stimulation, daring _him_ to speak, daring _him_ to revert to his old self, daring _him_ to demand Wilson's friendship, daring _him_ to be House.

Turning to look at him, Wilson wondered what House was thinking. He wondered if the House he knew still existed, wondered if that damned surgery he had insisted upon had lost him his best friend forever. House turned his head to look at Wilson and they stared into one another's eyes, each willing the other to speak. And so in silence, they sat with the aisle dividing them, bus barreling down the long and winding road, not knowing what stop they would get off on.

House suddenly stood, placing both feet into the fissure of the aisle between them, and now towered above Wilson. Wilson silently hoped that House wouldn't walk away, and to his surprise, House raised his hand, the back of it facing Wilson, and he motioned a small, succinct sweeping wave, asking Wilson to scoot over. And he obliged. And again, the two men sat wordlessly, facing forward on the bus for a handful of stops. After a short while, House stood, exited the bus, and headed towards his apartment. And as the bus pulled away, Wilson peered out the window and watched as House became a distant figure left behind.

* * *

After paying the cab driver, Wilson got into his car and drove back to his hotel room, grabbed several mini bottles of liquid therapy from the mini fridge and tried not to think of what the hell had happened to his life over the course of one short month. He tried not to scold himself for not following House off the bus and he tried not to think about her.

* * *

House placed the key into the door. No need to rush, no where to go, no one to talk with. It was as if everything he did was in slow motion now, no urgency to anything. No need to make actions sharp, purposeful, flamboyant. He had no desire make his presence known, no need to shock or cajole, no need to elicit gasps of disbelief. There was no point, especially not now.

He tried to make the effort. He took that first step. He sat next Wilson but Wilson remained on the bus. He put his pride, his heart and his everything on the line when he stood and made the effort to close the gap between them, but Wilson did not return the effort. What was the point?

As he turned the key, House froze. His door was unlocked. He closed his eyes and sighed, knowing who waited for him inside. She was there. She was always there. She was there when he woke up from his coma. She was there when Wilson walked away. She drove him home from the hospital and stayed with him day and night until he shattered a glass bowl in anger, after silently screaming on his portable whiteboard. Somehow writing, "LEAVE ME ALONE" in large caps on a mini whiteboard didn't have the same oomph as an all out shouting fest would have. And through it all, she took it in stride and held his hand. Her hand was in his when he awoke in the ICU, when Wilson left, when she drove him home, when she sat with him on the couch, when he was finished throwing things in anger.

House closed the door behind him and walked over to Cuddy, who sat on the couch, and he joined her, sitting immediately next to her. There was no shame, no embarrassment in hiding his desire for her to hold his hand. He had lost that notion some time during his second day in the ICU. By the fifth day, after waking for the ninth, or tenth time always from the same nightmare, he found her there holding his hand, and he finally squeezed back.

Before he took her hand again, he reached for the whiteboard and marker, and scribbled hastily, _Door unlocked_. He turned to her with brows furrowed, clearly angry and he held the whiteboard up for her to see.

"I knew you'd be back."

He used an old sock to erase his first message and then House pounded out a second message. His anger surprised Cuddy, as he rarely showed any emotion at all as of late.

_Not safe, don't leave it unlocked again or I'll take back your key._

"Okay," she said, reaching for his hand. She held his thumb sideways, from the first joint down, wrapping her fingers around part of his palm, but he pulled away. It was the first time he had pulled out of her grasp and she turned her head away to hide her disappointment. Cuddy had hoped his willingness to allow her to hold him was doing House some good; she thought he enjoyed it as much as she had grown to enjoy it.

This time he wrote his words slowly, _Not okay_. House paused, brow again furrowed, clearly deep in thought. He placed the marker to the board several times and then pulled away, struggling to write his next words. Though he wanted to say more, he settled on _Need you_.

Cuddy sighed, her shoulders dropped and her head tipped slightly to the side in understanding, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. Nothing will happen to me." Cuddy removed the whiteboard and marker from his hands, placed them on the coffee table and then took his hands in hers. She knew his nightmares kept him awake most nights. She knew he feared being alone. Not alone at night, but alone, alone. Alone as in no Wilson. Alone as in no one to talk to. Alone as in having no reason to attempt words.

As he stared at his hands enveloped in hers, she looked at his eyes, "I wish you would talk to me." House turned and gave her a smirk. It nearly reminded her of the old House, wishing a sarcastic remark would follow.

"You know what I mean, you have the whiteboard or your computer." She watched as he shook his head. "What happened today? Where were you? We had half the hospital looking for you, I called…" she paused, trying to catch the quiver in her voice from escaping, "I called local ER's looking for you."

House turned his head sharply at her admission and he closed his eyes apologetically, shaking his head.

"Look at me," she said, lifting his chin so that she could look him in the eye, "Don't you dare do that to me again."

House puffed out his cheeks and released the air in a sigh, nodding. He pulled free of her hands and picked up the whiteboard once more. _Cemetary, paid my respects._

"That's where Wilson saw you?" House nodded.

"How did you get there?"

House pursed his lips guiltily and wrote, _Bus. _He conveniently left out the bit about the silent bus ride they shared.

"I would have taken you if you'd called." He shrugged his shoulders.

"There's salad and spaghetti in the fridge."

_Not hungry._

"You should eat."

House pointed at his words again and underlined them.

"You look exhausted, how's your head?"

_Don't start._

"Fine. Can I get you anything? Water?"

He shook his head and placed the whiteboard down, allowing her to once again hold his hand. He looked at her and could see how tired she was. He was acutely aware of how much the past month had taken out of her. She had been by his side without fail, a better friend to him than he had ever been to her. He knew she had lost not one friend, but two that day. He knew Wilson wasn't his usual self with her or anyone else either. And House also knew that he was no longer challenging her, keeping her on her toes, aggravating her, exciting her. He knew she wasn't sleeping any better than he was and he felt an immense sense of guilt because of it. Using his other hand to lean on his cane, he stood, and pulled her up off the couch with his other hand.

"House? What it is?"

He looked her in the eye and pulled her by the hand towards his bedroom.

Somewhat frightened, she resisted, "House, no."

He frowned, released her hand and picked up the whiteboard, _Can't sleep_.

"I don't think…" she began.

He furiously wrote again. _Just until I fall asleep._ He looked at her, and held up his hand and hers, asking her to hold his hand.

"Okay."

He led her towards his bedroom, not noticing the sadness in her eyes. She wondered if the House she once knew still existed. He somehow managed to do his job, continuing to find cures and answers, but he was now simply a shadow of the man he once was. An outline, an impression.

He took his shoes off and crawled into bed and Cuddy sat on the edge. She reached for his hand and he wrapped his hand around hers, and pulled her down onto the bed.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get into my pants Dr. House." She said, trying to sound upbeat, playful; hoping he would take the bait and find some of his old spark and play along.

House reached over to the nightstand and grabbed the pad of paper and pen and wrote, _In your dreams Cuddy_.

She laughed, "No, in yours." And for the first time since before the bus crash, he smiled. It was fleeting but it had been there, and it was genuine. She reached for his hand and watched as he fell asleep. Cuddy didn't see his second smile since the crash, the one that touched the corners of his mouth as he watched her crawl out of bed the following morning. She too had fallen asleep, hand in hand, shortly after he had drifted off.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Wilson sat at his desk, rifling mindlessly through half a dozen patient files. He looked up briefly, cursing himself for his actions the day prior on the bus. He was angry with himself for not getting up out of his seat and following House home. He was angry with himself for not saying anything, for not making the effort, for not forgiving, for not accepting that House would be unable to verbally apologize. He was angry that he didn't immediately recognize House's attempts at reconciliation upon sitting next to him on the bus. He was angry for not recognizing that House didn't need to apologize in the first place. He was angry at himself for allowing his friendship, the one true constant he could always rely on, to disintegrate. He was angry with himself for asking House to put his life at risk.

He glanced back at the files on his desk, when he heard a knock on the door. Immediately, he tensed, hoping it wasn't House. He felt foolish, knowing he should swallow his idiocy and just speak with him but he couldn't bring himself to do it. He didn't know what to say.

"Come in," he said.

"Wilson, I'd like to have a word with you," Cuddy said, closing the door behind her.

Wilson eyed her skeptically, "I'm not interested in talking about him."

"I'm not interested in your excuses. We need to talk. Now."

"Now is not the time Cuddy."

"It's now, or I'm suspending you."

"You can't do that."

"No? Patient care has plummeted, you haven't processed files in nearly a month and your bedside manner is distant, bordering cold. You haven't taken the time to grieve properly Wilson."

"It's not your place. I was at the funeral. I was the one to turn the machines off. I was the one to pack up her things. I gave the eulogy. I'm the one who thinks about her each and every moment of each and every day. Don't tell me I haven't grieved."

"I wasn't talking about Amber." There was an audible pause, thick with unvoiced concern and laced with regret.

"He's not dead."

"He's dead to you. He nearly died. How many times does he need to apologize Wilson? How many?"

Wilson simply stared at her, not willing to acknowledge the truth to her words.

"House had no way of knowing that garbage truck would strike the bus. He didn't ask her to pick him up, he asked her to find you. Amber made the choice to pick him up all on her own. She chose to board that bus of her own free will."

"Don't you dare place blame on her."

"I'm not. It's happenchance. Circumstance. An accident. Nothing more."

Cuddy's voice steadily increased with each syllable, anger creeping into her tired voice, "You're killing him."

"He's killing himself."

"You've been in denial for a month, with anger thrown in there too. Has the bargaining started? Have you prayed for her return in exchange for his life yet?" Cuddy held nothing back, "You're not the only one experiencing grief, Wilson.

"He has no right to experience grief. I lost Amber, she meant nothing to him."

"Don't you see? Don't you get it? He lost you."

Wilson sighed, knowing what she said was true but not yet ready to admit it.

"Not only did he lose you, but you took his trust and shot it with a volt of electricity. He did it willingly; he gave it without question because of his devotion to you, because of his own guilt for Amber. And then you took that sacred trust and buried it alongside her. He proved his friendship Wilson, he sacrificed himself for you. This is House we're talking about here. House. The man who doesn't give anyone the time of day, yet he laid his life down for you and he did it without giving it a moment's thought. He gave you the truest act of friendship anyone could ever possibly give and in turn, you walked away."

Wilson buried his head into his hands, willing her to stop.

She continued, standing now, unable to control her anger, "Did you know that he sits and holds my hand, asks for it? House wants ME to hold HIS hand, like a child. Did you know he has some hearing loss in his right ear? Did you? It was aggravated by the seizure, which caused his cracked skull to worsen. How about the migraines, or his nightmares that keep him from sleeping? Never mind he isn't speaking. Did you know it's psychosomatic? He can physically talk but he's convinced himself that he can't."

Tears began to spill down Wilson's cheek.

Cuddy was in tears now too, "I am sorry for your loss. I really am. I know how much you loved her. But you love him too, and I know you still do even if you won't admit it. If you don't fix this now, you're going to lose him forever too." Cuddy took one last glance at him and walked out of his office, closing the door behind her.

And through his choking sobs, he whispered, "I know." Wilson gasped for air, clutching at the stitch in his chest, waiting for the palpitations to pass.

* * *

Wilson purposely left for lunch forty five minutes earlier than usual, hoping to catch House in the cafeteria. He grabbed his usual salad and iced tea, paid and scanned the tables for House. He held his breath briefly when he caught sight of him in the far corner, alone, sitting with his back to Wilson. He approached, gathering every ounce of courage he had.

Wilson cleared his throat upon his approach. House inhaled sharply in surprise, turned to look at the idiot who had interrupted his lunch and found Wilson standing there, looking pale, somewhat like a scared little kid who had been caught shoving a classmate down at recess.

"Can I join you?" Wilson asked.

House shrugged his shoulders.

Wilson sat opposite him and set his tray next to the mini whiteboard and marker already perched on the table top. He couldn't bring himself to say anything and House avoided his attempts at eye contact, so Wilson thought it best to simply eat his lunch. At least House permitted him to sit at the same table. It was a start.

Wilson took three or four bites of his salad and pushed it aside, focusing on his tea. It was an act that did not go unnoticed by House and he arched an eyebrow in response. It was the first time House had the chance to really look at Wilson. They had avoided one another since his return to work, and he hadn't seen Wilson during his recovery. Wilson's lab coat hung loosely, his face gaunt. He could clearly see Wilson had lost a considerable amount of weight and it was no wonder, if all he ate for lunch was three bites of lettuce and a sip of tea.

House finished the last bite of his sandwich and stood to deposit the tray at a nearby trash receptacle. He returned to the table for his whiteboard, all the while with Wilson's gaze following his every move.

House turned to leave and Wilson called out, "Bye House." To Wilson's surprise, House held up his whiteboard in an awkward sort of wave, and kept on walking without looking back.

* * *

Cuddy held the phone to her ear, in mid conversation with a potential donor when House barged into her office. She stopped speaking instantly, shocked at his abrupt arrival. She hadn't seen him enter her office in such a manner since before the accident and the very act made her heart leap.

"I, I…" she stammered, "I'm sorry, there's a hospital emergency. I will call you back. Thank you, bye-bye." By the time Cuddy had placed the receiver down, House was standing immediately in front of her desk.

"What is it? What's wrong?" She motioned for him to sit, purposely keeping her hands stretched out in front of her for him to take, should he want.

He shook his head and quickly scribbled, "How long has Wilson not been eating?"

"How long do you think?"

"He took 3 bites of salad at lunch."

"How do you know how much he ate?" She asked, wondering where this line of questioning was going.

House erased the whiteboard with his sleeve, having forgotten the sock upstairs, and wrote, "He sat at my table."

"Are you two speaking?"

"No."

"But you sat with him at lunch?"

"Does it matter? How long has it been since he's eaten?" House wrote this furiously, underlining the second question twice.

"I imagine a month."

"Has he had any other complaints?"

"I don't know House, why? What's going on?"

House shrugged before he wrote, "He's pale, looks tired."

Cuddy suddenly diverted her eyes, looking down at the blotter on her desk, wondering if her verbal attack that morning might have had something to do with Wilson's pale complexion. She wondered if she'd stressed him into sitting with House at lunch too.

House slammed his hand down on her desk to get her attention and it worked, she jumped.

"What was that for?" She asked, startled.

House motioned to the whiteboard, angrily. It read, "What did you do?"

Not wanting to let House know that she had talked to Wilson about mending his friendship with House, she told a half truth, "This morning, I told him that if his patient care, documentation and bedside manner didn't improve, I'd place him on suspension. He needs time to grieve."

House sat down with a sigh. He maintained her eye contact, not quite believing he was getting the full truth, but he had to agree with Cuddy. Wilson needed a break. Nodding, he placed the whiteboard and marker down on her desk, and picked up both of her hands. He gave them a gentle squeeze, leading Cuddy to believe it was a gesture of gratitude and just as quickly as he had entered her office, he was gone.

Cuddy leaned back in her seat, sighed deeply and wondered if House had perhaps, just maybe, turned a corner. He hadn't been passionate about anything in a month and now he had apparently found a puzzle that needed solving; she found it very interesting that the puzzle was Wilson.

* * *

"Did you hear?" Taub asked, looking down the hallway before entering the conference room.

"Hear what?" Kutner asked.

"Wilson and House ate lunch together."

"Don't read too much into it." Hadley replied from the small kitchen area.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Kutner asked, defensively.

"It's probably just a rumor, and even if it was true, my guess is they aren't buddy, buddy."

Kutner looked at her and shook his head, "I don't care what you think. I have faith in House."

"Why do you trust him so much?" Taub asked from the seat nearest the book shelf.

Kutner looked at him in disbelief, "You're questioning House's motives? The man literally put his life on the line for his best friend. We should all be so lucky to have a friend like that."

"He did it out of guilt." Taub said, flippantly.

"I don't think so." Kutner replied.

"I don't either. I think that was part of it, but there's a lot more to it than that." Hadley said, joining them at the table.

Before she could explain what she meant, Taub shushed them at the sight of their boss approaching the conference room door.

House walked in, pointed at Hadley and motioned for her to follow him into his office. He then pointed at the other two, held up four fingers and then pointed towards the floor.

"What?" Taub asked, confused.

"We're supposed to join Foreman downstairs in the clinic," Kutner interpreted.

House pointed at Kutner with one index finger and tapped his nose with the other.

* * *

Inside House's office, he motioned for Hadley to sit down opposite him in his office. She complied, and he stared her straight in the eye, waiting for her to confess.

She looked at him, realizing he knew. "Did Dr. Cuddy mention it?"

House shook his head.

"Then how?"

House whipped out his mini whiteboard and wrote, "File."

She stared at him, mouth slightly agape, "You looked at my personal file?" House shrugged, not quite innocently.

She tipped her chin down, not sure how she felt about him knowing, "I'll be leaving at the end of the month."

As she was speaking, House continued to write on the whiteboard, "You don't have to leave."

"Yes, I think I do. Life's too short; I have things I want to do before I can't."

House nodded, giving his consent.

"Please don't say anything to the team; I'll tell them when I'm ready." He nodded once and she knew he would keep her secret.

* * *

House sat at his desk, deep in thought. His fellows were in the clinic, no current patient to work up. He grabbed his coat, the whiteboard and marker, and headed down to Cuddy's office.

For the second time that day, he barged in on her and he could have sworn he saw her wipe a smile from her face upon seeing him.

"Hey, you okay?" She asked. She indeed hid her smile from him, glad that some sense of normalcy, no matter how inconvenient his unannounced visits were, had returned.

He nodded and flashed the whiteboard, "Can you take me home?"

"Now? Are you feeling okay?"

"Patient research. Need to go home."

"Wilson's not your patient."

He half smiled and wrote, "You're smarter than you look." He scribbled almost illegibly, "Just get your keys."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"And we're stopping here because?" Cuddy asked as House grabbed a cart from the front of the supermarket.

House rolled his eyes, he wasn't about to bring the whiteboard in, so he motioned a grand sweeping motion with his arm as snarkily as he could manage, indicating they were there to shop.

Cuddy eyed him, smiling inside. She felt an overwhelming sense of relief that this man, this Dr. Greg House, was beginning to act more and more like his old self. She welcomed the snark, she welcomed his annoyed looks and furtive smiles. It was a far cry better than the man who stared straight ahead, oblivious to the world around him. House hooked his cane on the side of the cart, placed his right foot on the bottom shelf and pushed off with his left, riding the cart like a ten year old. Cuddy couldn't stifle her laugh.

She watched as House put item after item into the cart. He stocked up on bread, milk, canned chili, frozen burritos, salami, baked beans, mayonnaise, cheese, chips, peanut M&M's, trail mix and much to Cuddy's disgust, canned corned beef hash.

"If you're trying to fatten him up, don't you think you should at least attempt to get something healthy?"

House nodded and pushed off towards the frozen foods area, where Cuddy watched in dismay as he placed a frozen apple pie into the cart. He turned to look at her with a smirk on his face and eyebrows raised, apparently pleased with his fruit addition. He then turned and pushed off towards the back of the store and Cuddy did all she could to keep from crying happy tears. She trailed him, giving him his space and hoping to avoid his glare and soon they were at the meat counter, where House placed two very large rib eye steaks into the cart.

"I'll meet you at the check out counter, I need to pick something up," Cuddy said, hoping her plan would work.

House busied himself at the check out counter, removing all the items from the cart. Cuddy approached, with two boxes of tampons in her arms. House turned to look at her with a look of shocked disgust on his face. Immediately he waved her off, shaking his head vehemently. No way did he want her anywhere near him with _those_.

Cuddy feigned annoyance, rolled her eyes and walked to the end checkout counter with a huge grin on her face. There was no way House could force her to pay for his grocery stash now. She was too far away paying for unnecessary tampons, her wallet grateful.

* * *

She helped him with the groceries, placing the steaks in the freezer, the canned goods behind a cupboard door and then reached for the M&M's and trail mix. House stopped her by placing his hand on hers and shaking his head.

"What?" She asked.

He reached for his trusty whiteboard, "4 work."

House pulled a chair into the kitchen and began to stand on it when she stopped him, "What do you think you're doing?"

He rolled his eyes, writing, "Need 2 bowls."

"And you need a chair to get them?"

"Can't reach top shelf," he wrote, pointing at a cupboard even he couldn't reach.

"Need I remind you that your head is still cracked? Move." She placed her hand on his arm to use as support and removed her heels and then moved her hand to his shoulder to steady herself as she stood on the chair. She couldn't reach the top shelf, even from her perch on the chair.

"Give me your hand," she said, motioning for him to help her.

He reached his hand up and she took it, and then stepped up onto the kitchen counter. She stood up fully once she was on top of the counter and released his hand, House then held her from her hips, keeping her from falling. She reached up, grabbed the two bowls and looked down to hand them to him and noticed a certain doctor trying to catch a glimpse up her gray skirt. And without thinking, she used her right hand to lightly smack him on the left side of his head; House grimaced, placing his hand to his head.

"Oh my god, I am so sorry," She said, feeling instantly horrible. She bent down to place the bowls on the counter and as she did, her foot slipped and she squeaked as she began to fall forward. House dropped his cane as he reached up and caught her, placing her down on the floor safely, between him and the counter.

She looked up at him, reaching her hand to where she had hit him. Brushing her fingers through his hair, hoping she hadn't hurt him, she asked, "Are you okay? I didn't mea…"

Her words were cut short as he reached forward and covered her mouth with his, effectively taking her breath away in a deep kiss. Her hands were placed palm down on his chest and she initially tried to push him away, but she eventually gave in to the kiss, and placed one hand near his cheek and the other around his neck.

House pulled back, and looked at her with a smug smile. She squinted at him and shook her head, "How's your head."

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Headache?"

He nodded.

"For how long?"

He shrugged again.

Cuddy furrowed her brow, "Did it start before the grocery store?"

He nodded.

"Before lunch?"

House took his hand and held it out flat, palm side down and then tipped it from side to side, meaning his headache sort of started around lunch time. Cuddy found it interesting that it started about the same time as House had met with Wilson.

She sighed and dragged her index finger across his mouth, "I miss hearing your voice."

His smug smile faded into a frown. She bent down and picked up the cane and handed it to him, motioning for him to go sit down in the living room. He shook his head.

"Don't argue, go sit down." He gave her hand a quick squeeze before heading towards the couch.

Cuddy brought his pain pills and a glass of water out to the living room and sat next to him on the couch. House held up his whiteboard, "Let's go."

"No, you're not going anywhere." She took out her penlight and flashed it in his eyes, but he batted her hand away and rolled his eyes.

"You're staying here, under strict orders. I'm going back to work. Get some rest. I'm beginning to think I let you back to work too soon."

House shook his head and wrote furiously on the whiteboard, "I need to get back to work, I have a patient."

"Wilson is not your patient," she reminded him again, "And you need to take care of yourself. You can't fool me House, your eyes give you away. You've got a bad headache."

She could see him becoming tense, his anger building. Again he scribbled out a message, "I need to make things right."

She closed her eyes and sighed, taking his hand in hers, "You did what you could. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't." He shook his head and she could see that he was once again withdrawing, allowing his thoughts to revert back to that night.

"Come on, let's get you to bed." She stood and pulled on his hand and the man who had stolen both a glance up her skirt and a kiss, and who had acted like a child in the supermarket only a short while earlier, once again receded into himself, leaving a feint, indistinguishable shadow to follow her into his bedroom. She helped him into bed, pulled his shoes off and covered him with the blanket.

"I'll be back after work. If you need me, text me." She whispered, watching as House pressed his fingers to his temples. She knew he was well on his way towards another migraine, and as she left his apartment, she made sure to turn out each offending light.

* * *

"I will have our oncologist look at your case, just sit tight." Taub said, walking out of the clinic exam room. As he approached the nurse's station, he nearly ran into Cuddy.

"Have you seen House?" he asked.

"He's taking the rest of the afternoon off," she said, rather absentmindedly.

"Is he okay?"

Cuddy looked at Taub and shrugged, "Not one of his better days."

Taub sighed before reaching for the phone.

"Been busy today?"

"We're swamped. I've got a case for Wilson," he said, holding up the patient file, "Breast cancer."

She sighed, "I'll take care of it," she said, motioning for him to hand her the file. Taub passed it along and then grabbed the next case file before heading towards the next exam room.

* * *

She knocked on Wilson's door and entered before he could say anything. He didn't look up at her when she walked in, but continued to sign several files piled high on his desk.

"Looks like a breast cancer case for you in the clinic," she said holding up the file. She handed it to him as she sat down.

"You look exhausted," he said, trying to reconcile the morning's argument by pretending nothing had happened.

"Long day."

Wilson studied his hands momentarily, "I think I'll stop by his place tonight."

She closed her eyes, "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"Just this morning you said…"

"I know what I said, but today's not a good day for him."

"Where is he?" Wilson asked, unable to hide his concern.

"He's at home. He's got a migraine," and guiltily, she added, "Which I sort of made worse."

"What?"

"I was helping him to get something off of a tall shelf because the idiot was going to stand on top of a chair to reach it, and he tried to look up my skirt, and without thinking, I accidentally hit his head."

"You hit him?"

"I said it was an accident. He was so…" she paused, trying to find the right words, "He was almost like...he even smiled briefly but…"

"Wait, you hit a man with a cracked skull, in the head?"

She looked at Wilson, obviously in deep regret over what she had done, "I meant it playfully, like before. I didn't hit him hard, it was just a tap. He was being…" She thought for a moment, "He was being House." Cuddy conveniently left out the bit about his kiss afterwards.

She watched as Wilson got up from his desk and took his lab coat off, "Wait, where are you going? You've got a patient in the clinic."

"Give the file to Johnson, I'm going over there."

"Wilson, he's not ready. You need to give him some time. You need to give yourself some time, you need to want this; don't do this because I told you to."

"I'm not going to lose him too, Cuddy," Wilson said, keys in hand, as he walked towards the elevators. He turned to face her as he waited for the next car, "I wasn't there during his recovery. Did he tell you about the bus?"

She looked a bit confused, "I'm not sure what you mean."

"After I saw him at the cemetery yesterday, I found him riding home on the bus. I wouldn't sit next him, but he got up. He made the effort, he sat next to me, and when he got off the bus, I didn't follow when I should have. I wasn't there for him again. I'm not making the same mistake a third time."

* * *

Wilson withdrew his key, the key he never gave back after living with House. He opened the front door to a quiet and very dark apartment and looked around, noting the slight snore coming from the bedroom. Wilson walked over to the couch, put his feet up on the coffee table, just as he had countless times before, and waited.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Whaahhhhh!!" He shouted, waking with a violent shudder. Wilson looked up at House who towered above him and watched as he replaced the cane to his side, having just nudged Wilson with it. His lips were pursed, and he looked more angry than shocked to find Wilson perched in his living room. Wilson sat up and grabbed at the stitch in his chest while taking several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. He lost sight of House who reappeared on his left side, placing two fingers on Wilson's neck.

"I'm fine," he said, trying to shoo House away, "You just startled me."

House scribbled on his mini whiteboard, "Regulate your breathing."

"Ya, thanks for the advice," Wilson said sarcastically. House limped out to the kitchen, in search of his pills.

"What time is it?" Wilson called out from the living room, half hoping House would forget his muteness and just holler back like the previous month had never existed.

House laughed weakly at how stupid the question sounded before marching his way back to the living room, furiously writing on the whiteboard as he limped without his cane, "You didn't seriously expect me to yell back?"

"Well, no. I just thought…" Wilson let his voice trail off.

"Did something happen to Cuddy?" House was writing so fast, his penmanship was nearly illegible.

"No, why?"

"She was supposed to be here. Not you."

"I think she's coming after work."

House eyed his thin friend. He looked disheveled, sleeves rolled up, tie-less, wrinkled. He hopefully wrote, "Hungry? Got pie."

"No, I wanted to talk."

House tipped his head to the side, slightly annoyed and wrote, "Not in the mood to talk."

"Why? Because you can't, or because you won't?" Wilson bit his tongue, wishing he hadn't said those words.

House became angered at the insinuation that his muteness was an act. He wanted nothing more than to yell at Wilson for suggesting it. He hastily wrote, "Do you think this is a game? Do you think I'm enjoying this?"

Wilson stood and headed towards the light switch, "It's too dark, I can't read what you're writing." Wilson reached for the switch but found his hand blocked by the cane. He turned to look at House who was ever so slightly shaking his head.

"Photophophobia?"

House erased the whiteboard with his sleeve and scribbled, "Duh."

"Does Cuddy know? Or Foreman? You should go back to bed."

House wanted to tell Wilson he was sorry; he wanted to offer Wilson a sandwich. He wanted to sit with him and watch a tivo'd episode of some dumb television show, drinking beer and pretending everything was okay. He wanted to tell Wilson that he did all he could to save her, that he told her to find Wilson, not pick him up herself. But for some pigheaded reason, one even he couldn't quite understand himself, House couldn't keep his anger from bubbling up with the notion that Wilson could just show up after a month of avoidance, plop himself on his couch, accuse him of faking the loss of his voice and, as if it was his place, then tell him to go to bed.

House picked up the whiteboard and wrote words, he knew he would regret; words he regretted the second the marker hit the board, "You have no right to tell me where to go. You lost that right a month ago."

"Don't do this House. Maybe I shouldn't have just showed up here unannounced, but I came to apologize. I came to set things right."

"What makes you think you can?" House looked at his former best friend, wondering how Wilson could have possibly thought that it was his responsibility to set things straight, when it was House who had made that fated phone call that eventually led to her death. If anyone should have been apologizing, it was him.

Wilson read the words and his heart dropped as he began to think that he had perhaps misjudged House's effort on the bus the day prior. The two men stared at each other and before he could allow House to see the tears well up in his eyes, Wilson turned towards the front door.

"I don't know," he said on his way out, not looking back.

Cuddy entered the apartment later that evening, placed her bag down and found House sitting in the dark, staring blankly ahead. She wondered how things had gone with Wilson but from the look of his drooped shoulders and the lack of light or sound in the apartment, she had a feeling it had not gone well. Cuddy approached House and, as she had so many times before, sat next to him, picked up his hand and simply held on tight.

As she sat with him, she noticed the whiteboard which sat on the coffee table, a message already written and waiting for her to read, "Don't ask about Wilson."

"So, you're not going to tell me?" He shook his head and she decided not to push the issue.

"How bad's the migraine?" House shrugged his shoulders.

"Vomit?" He nodded.

"How many times?" House held up one finger.

"Don't lie to me." He guiltily held up two fingers.

"I want Foreman to take a look at you." He sighed and shook his head.

"House, you're skull is not fully healed and maybe all of this was just too soon. I want him to take a look at you." Again he shook his head, grimacing at the action.

"Fine, if the migraine isn't gone by morning, I'm taking you to see Foreman and if you refuse, I'll bring him here." She watched as he angled his head to the side, rolling his eyes, "Uh huh, don't argue. This isn't an option. It's either go now or go in the morning." House sat motionless, no longer looking at her but no longer refusing to do what she asked either.

"And so long as I'm giving orders, no more bus rides. Got it?" House made no indication that he heard her, so she continued, "Have you eaten?"

House erased the whiteboard and wrote, "Not hungry."

"I am. I need to turn on the light, but if it bothers you, maybe you should go to bed."

House nodded before writing, "You should go home, sleep."

"Afraid I'll eat your precious pie?" she asked with a smirk. He half smiled and slightly shook his head.

"I'm staying here tonight, I brought an overnight bag with me and real fruit and vegetables, imagine that. You should try them once in a while."

House used his elbow to erase the whiteboard, writing, "Foreign substance. Couldn't tolerate it."

"Go on, I'll bring your pills in a bit. Do you want anything else?"

House sported a devilish grin, raised his eyebrows several times and held up the whiteboard which read, "You."

Cuddy laughed out loud, "I'll sleep on the couch, thanks. No strenuous activity for you, for at least another month, remember?" She watched as House stuck out his bottom lip before ambling off towards his bedroom.

She was standing at the kitchen counter, cutting vegetables for her salad when she heard him approach. Without looking back, she said, "You really should be in bed, unless you want something to eat. And no, you may not steal another kiss."

"He stole a kiss?" Wilson asked, startling Cuddy.

She turned to look at him, "I thought you had left."

"I told you, I wasn't there when I should have been and I'm not turning my back on him now, no matter how much he hates me for it. I left here angry and I got about five blocks before I decided to come back."

"You're a good friend, Wilson."

"I haven't acted like it lately."

"You've been through a lot." She paused, thinking about the purpose of House's grocery store visit, "Hungry? I was just making myself a salad. I know House has a bunch of junk here too."

"No, not really."

"Not you too," she said with a sigh, "He's not eating, you're not eating."

"Why isn't he eating?"

"Migraine, I guess." Wilson nodded in understanding.

The two stood facing the sink as they talked, and neither noticed House approach. He wedged the whiteboard in between the two of them and turned it so they could read it.

"I lost my voice, not my hearing."

Cuddy rolled her eyes, feeling slightly guilty for talking about him behind her back. She turned to face him, as did Wilson and found House standing there with a dark pair of sunglasses on.

"Actually, you lost part of your hearing." She smirked.

It was his turn to roll his eyes and hastily wrote, "In one ear, and only part of it. I can hear fine."

"Hi." Wilson whispered.

House stared at him momentarily, not wanting to push him away a second time. He nodded once, acknowledging him.

House scrawled, "You can stay if you eat." Wilson said nothing, but didn't head for the door either.

"Do you think you can eat something House?" Cuddy asked.

House shrugged and Wilson headed towards the refrigerator, grabbed the new carton of eggs, butter and milk. House watched him with raised eyebrows. Wilson set the items near the stove and turned back to reach for a bowl and a fry pan.

Looking briefly at House, Wilson said, "Scrambled okay?" House wasn't sure what to make of the situation, but nodded.

"House, go sit in the living room." Cuddy said, tossing the salad.

They ate in silence, with House and Cuddy sitting on the same couch, though on opposite ends, and Wilson on the chaise lounge. House managed to get down four or five bites before deciding not to test his stomach further. Without overtly looking, he also managed to watch how much Wilson had eaten and it wasn't much. House was fairly certain he had eaten more than Wilson, but he figured something was better than nothing and at least it was some protein. He leaned his head back on the couch after setting his plate on the coffee table. He massaged his temples, wishing his headache would ease up, if only for a moment.

Wilson watched as House grimaced while trying to ease his migraine and he wanted to say something, anything. He wanted to tell House to get a good night's sleep, to take it easy, to let his mind go, that he was forgiven, but he sat in silence, afraid to utter a sound, afraid to admit there was really nothing to forgive. If he wanted to keep an eye on House, and if he wanted to repair this battered friendship, and he did, Wilson knew he would have to take things slowly, allowing their friendship to rebuild and telling House to take care of himself was not yet something House would allow him to do. So he simply sat, grateful that he was there.

Cuddy broke the silence and said what Wilson was thinking, "Go to bed House."

House looked over at her, nodded and headed towards his room, exhausted. He glanced at Wilson on his way out and ever so nonchalantly, placed his hand on Wilson's shoulder for the briefest of moments, and then was gone. The act did not go unnoticed by Cuddy, and as quickly as she could, she gathered the dirty dishes and rushed off to the kitchen, leaving a now tearful Wilson in peace.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Wilson stretched out on the couch and looked over at an already sleeping Cuddy on the chaise lounge and half smiled, wondering if her comment about the stolen kiss had any validity to it. His mind wandered and he found himself pondering what the heck he was doing sleeping on House's couch, when only a day prior he had nothing but venomous thoughts about his one time best friend. One time best friend. Would they ever regain than level of trust? Wilson wondered if House would ever trust him with his life again and thought likely not, after having exploited that trust and failed in asking him to risk his life for hers. At the same time, Wilson wondered if he could truly trust House again. While he knew at the heart of it, House had not been responsible for her death, for the accident, for the flu pills, he also felt that had House not been so needy that she might have survived. Had House gone home after work, or had thought to call a cab instead of relying on Wilson to always step in and fix his messes, she might be alive. He tried not to think of it that way, but once in a while that thought crept up on him, and yet here he was, in House's living room, sleeping on his couch, once again worried about his one time best friend. It was with this thought that Wilson fell into a fitful sleep, his own nightmares plaguing him.

* * *

Sometime during the wee hours of the morning, House woke with a start and as he had so many times since the accident, he shook the remnants of the nightmare off and reached for his pill bottle. Not finding it, he sat up and looked around; it was missing from his nightstand. Figuring Cuddy had forgotten to bring it in, he headed towards the kitchen and as he limped quietly out towards the main living area, he couldn't help but pause to glance at Wilson and Cuddy, both sleeping in what appeared to be very uncomfortable positions.

House continued into the kitchen, swallowed two pills, poured himself a glass of water to take back to his room and as he turned towards the living room, that's when he heard it. He first heard Wilson thrashing on the couch, and then, as he approached, he could hear the distinct sound of his shallow, labored breathing. By the time he got out to the living room, Cuddy was awake too, now standing above Wilson, unsure if she should wake him from his apparent nightmare.

House limped up next to her, pushed her aside and sat on the coffee table, facing Wilson. He placed his hand on Wilson's shoulder and shook him several times and when he didn't wake at first, Cuddy began to call his name. What seemed like an eternity later, Wilson opened his eyes wide, full of fright and he sat up, trying to catch his breath. His heart was beating too fast, causing him to breathe frantically and he looked around the room erratically, unable to focus on any one thing.

House placed one hand on his neck, checking his pulse and the other on his shoulder. He then took his hand off Wilson's neck and placed it over his heart, unconsciously pursing his lips as he felt the vibrations of Wilson's heart. Finally, House pointed at his own eyes, trying to get Wilson to focus on him. Wilson's gaze settled on House's and House began to breathe in and out slowly, calmly.

Cuddy quietly said, "Slowly Wilson, breathe in, breathe out, slow breaths. You're okay."

Wilson followed suit, grasping House's forearms with his hands, steadying himself and mirroring House's breathing pattern. After several deep, calming breaths, Wilson managed to get his breathing under control and the two men sat with arms locked, gaze steady, each holding the other up. When Wilson felt the last ravages of the nightmare dissipate and his heart return to its normal pattern, he lowered his arms and nodded in thanks and House too dropped his arms. He checked Wilson's pulse one last time and then picked up the whiteboard and wrote, "Palpitations-how long?"

Wilson shrugged, "Last couple of weeks."

"You had one earlier, on the couch," House wrote.

"Yes."

Cuddy watched the two friends, both so concerned for the other and yet neither able to admit to it and tears threatened to fill her eyes, but she willed them away, "What is it House?"

"Need to run tests. Hypertension, stress or maybe anemia." House wrote, angling the board so that only Cuddy could see it. He quickly erased it and scratched, "He needs to sleep in a bed, so do you. You should go home. I'm fine. Migraine's gone."

She shook her head, "I'm not going anywhere. I was just fine on the chaise, it's comfortable."

"Liar." House wrote, giving her a disbelieving look.

"House, I'm fine," Wilson said, "I have nightmares no matter where I sleep. It started at our apartment so I moved back to the hotel, thinking they would stop but they didn't. I'm fine here on the couch, I'm not going back to the hotel tonight. I sleep better here."

House shook his head and handed Wilson the glass of water he had filled for himself and picked up the whiteboard, scribbling, "Go sleep in my bed, I'll take the couch."

"No, absolutely not. I'm fine right here," Wilson said, shaking his head.

"House, just go back to bed, we're fine here tonight, okay?" Cuddy said, as she now stood next to House. She reached for his hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

House looked at them both and shook his head before heading towards his bedroom, feeling guiltier than ever.

* * *

Cuddy woke House up early the next day, "House, Wilson's gone. He left before I got up." He frowned at the news, and picked up the pad of paper and pen from the night stand.

"I need the morning off."

"Why?"

"Head hurts," he lied.

"I want you to see Foreman, I'll drive you."

House shook his head and wrote, "No, I need to sleep. I'll catch a cab after lunch and Foreman can have his way with me then," he looked up at her with a smirk on his face. She eyed him, not fully believing him, but if he would consent willingly to an exam, she wasn't going to argue.

"Keep an eye on Wilson, let me know if he's okay," he wrote.

"Okay. Can I get you anything before I leave?" House shook his head.

As soon as Cuddy was gone, House got up, showered, ate a piece of peanut buttered toast and donned his favorite pair of sneakers. He grabbed his backpack, threw in the two bowls Cuddy had nearly dropped along with the trail mix and the peanut M&M's into the backpack and grabbed the whiteboard on his way out the door.

* * *

Cuddy stood in the main lobby, near the entrance waiting for House to arrive. He hadn't returned her last text and she was beginning to get worried and wondered if she should drive out to his place to check on him.

"Think he's okay?" Wilson asked, stepping up beside her.

"I thought you said he wasn't your responsibility anymore," Cuddy said rather sharply.

"I…" Wilson wasn't sure what to say, "He still has a fractured skull, what if he fell?"

"Why did you leave without saying anything this morning?"

Wilson looked at her sheepishly, "Embarrassed I guess, after last night."

"He worries about you too, you know. He may not say it, he may not even show it, but he does. The look on his face last night should have told you that."

Wilson nodded, "I know." Wilson paused, staring at his feet, "If he's not here in the next half hour, let me know."

Cuddy nodded and watched Wilson walk away. She took out her cell phone and once again sent House a text message but before she could hit the send button, she saw a somewhat bedraggled looking House emerge from a taxi cab, limping heavily towards her.

She looked at him from head to toe and noted he certainly didn't look as well rested as he should have and before he could cross the threshold, she began questioning him, "Why didn't you return my texts and where have you been? House, are you okay? You look exhausted. What happened?"

The two of them walked into her office and he collapsed onto her couch, and she sat next to him, instantly reaching for his hand, "Talk to me House." He rolled his eyes, and yawned.

"Don't lie to me, where were you this morning?"

He pulled out the whiteboard from his backpack, "Shopping."

Cuddy tipped her chin down and squinted her eyes, "And why were you shopping?"

"Needed a new bed."

She angled her head to the side in understanding, "You didn't check him out of his hotel too, did you?" House looked straight forward, not meeting her gaze, "Oh House," she said with a sigh.

"I'm worried about him," he wrote.

"You couldn't have invited him over?"

"He wouldn't have come."

"House, he's going to be angry. You didn't give him a chance to say yes." House shrugged.

"How's your head?"

"Fine."

"Don't lie to me. How's your migraine."

"Fine, not lying."

"Come on, let's get you up to your office. Foreman can run an exam on you there." House rolled his eyes.

* * *

House sat at his desk, placing the two bowls out and filling them with M&M's and trail mix while Cuddy had a quick word with Foreman in the conference room. Foreman and the rest of his team entered his office, and immediately Kutner's face lit up as he stuck his hand out towards the bowl of M&M's. Before he could say anything, House had rapped him on his knuckles with the cane while shaking his head.

House wrote, "Not for you," on the whiteboard and glared at Kutner, before adding, "Go get Wilson, tell him I need a consult."

Kutner and the rest of his fellows passed questioning looks between themselves, clearly unsure if the two doctors were ready to work together again.

Growing angry, House wrote, "Just go," and Kutner left the room.

Foreman looked at the other two fellows, "I think the two of you should probably go down to the clinic," he looked at House for approval and he nodded, "I'm going to give House an exam; close the door on your way out and tell Kutner to join you." Taub and Hadley left the office without question as Foreman and Cuddy closed the blinds to the office.

Foreman motioned for House to take a seat in the corner chair, and then began a neurological exam. House followed Foreman's fingers with his eyes, and sat like a good little patient as he checked reflexes and shined his penlight into his eyes.

"Any migraines?"

Cuddy answered for him, "He had a bad one yesterday, but he said it was gone around three a.m. this morning."

"Vomiting?"

"Twice," She said.

Frowning, House picked up the whiteboard and wrote, "I'm sitting right here. I can answer."

"Sorry," she said.

Wilson silently entered the office and watched as Foreman completed the exam. A small part of his heart dropped realizing he had no idea how any of House's previous neuro exams had gone, what his prognosis was, how severe his head injury had truly been, nor how much hearing House had lost after the seizure. All he really knew was that House had lost, or at least had convinced himself the he had lost, the ability to speak and that thought weighed heavily on his conscious.

"So?" Cuddy asked when Foreman completed the exam.

"The occasional headache or migraine is not uncommon at this stage. He shouldn't be doing anything strenuous or driving yet but he's okay. I think he should have stayed home a little bit longer, but as long as he takes it easy here, he should be fine. It wouldn't hurt to get another scan of his brain."

House shook his head, writing, "No, no more MRI's, CT's, poking, prodding. Nope. Done."

Cuddy sighed, "House, it's for your own good."

"If I have multiple migraines, then you can run your scans. Until then, no." Foreman, Cuddy and Wilson frowned, but they couldn't force him to take the tests.

"I'll be in my office if you need me," Cuddy said, eyeing House, throwing out a lifeline in case he should need it once he broke the news to Wilson.

"I'll be in the clinic," Foreman said, walking out the door with Cuddy.

House moved towards his desk and sat down with a sigh and Wilson sat opposite him, and popped an M&M into his mouth, much to the delight of House.

"So, where's the file?"

House braced himself, and wrote, "It's not a cancer patient."

"So why did you call for a consult."

House passed Wilson a typed sheet of paper. Wilson read it aloud, "Male, early forties, severely depressed, heart palpitations, loss of appetite, lethargic, disinterest in work and normal activities, melancholy. Diagnosis: Likely anemic, possibly hypertensive and excessively stressed. Treatment: food, sleep and therapy."

"Funny House, you think the answer to all my problems is a little food? Is that what this is?" Wilson said, motioning towards the two bowls set out before him.

House showed no emotion, but sat stoically, knowing Wilson's likely reaction to the news would not be an overwhelmingly positive one. He flashed the whiteboard, on which he had written, "I'm sorry. I've tried a hundred different ways to say I'm sorry and the only way I know how to make it up to you is this."

Wilson looked at him in confusion, "How, to get me to eat?"

House quickly erased the whiteboard, "And sleep."

"And how do you propose that will happen?"

House set his jaw and readied himself for the backlash, "By having you stay with me."

"No."

"You don't have a choice."

"I have a home."

"A hotel room is not a home."

"Your apartment is not my home either."

"It is now."

Wilson tipped his head to the side and grew instantly wary of where this conversation was going, "What did you do?"

"Your stuff's at my place."

"I can't sleep on a couch House, and I'm not paying for a hotel room while I sleep at your place." Wilson was now standing, anger rising.

"You're checked out of the hotel and there's a new bed in the living room."

"WHAT?" Wilson shouted.

House took out a piece of paper and scribbled as quickly as he could, the whiteboard not big enough to contain all he wanted to say, "I know you hate me. I get that. But no matter how much you hate me, I don't hate you. I need to know that you're okay, that you're well. What I did to her was inexcusable, and this is the only way I know how to set things straight."

Wilson closed his mouth in shock, his own guilt rising at the realization that House thought he hated him. He quietly sat back down, allowing his anger to dissipate. After a moment, he gathered his thoughts, "You should have asked me first. I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity. You sleep better at my place. I'm responsible for all of this. Me. Let me do this," House wrote the words, acutely aware that Wilson did not deny that he hated him.

"So are these," he motioned towards the two bowls in front of him, "Bribes? Are you trying to get me to eat? I can't eat if I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat, you're anemic."

"You don't know that."

"I want to run a few tests."

"No."

House slammed his hand down on the desk, his own anger rising to the surface.

Wilson stood, "Fine, here's the deal. I'll eat when you start talking."

House's eyes grew wide and he shook his head vehemently, writing, "You can't do that. You need food to live, and I can't force words that aren't there."

"That's the deal, take it or leave it." Wilson said, heading towards the door.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

House placed his head into his hands, wondering what it was he had just done. Somehow his intentions of getting Wilson better had gone from bad to worse and now Wilson would be purposely withholding food until he said something. He needed to talk. He wanted to talk, he just couldn't figure out how.

House marched himself to Wilson's office and plopped himself down, uninvited, onto the couch and said nothing. He just sat there, almost like old times. Wilson didn't so much as glance at his friend, instead he simply continued on with his paperwork. The two sat in silence for nearly an hour, neither feeling the need to say anything and both secretly enjoying just being in one another's company again. It was something they both missed, and hadn't realized until that very moment.

House looked at Wilson and tried to say something. He pursed his lips as he tried to say Wilson's name and blew air through his lips, but no sound came. He shook his head, frustrated at how something that had once been a non-thought, a given, could be so difficult. Wilson had watched his attempt and he felt horrible for having suggested he wouldn't eat unless House would speak. He thought that ultimatum would trigger House's need to speak. He watched as House repeatedly tried to say a word, when finally out of frustration, he slammed his hand down on the arm rest and stormed out of Wilson's office.

House made his way down to Cuddy's office and sat himself on her couch before half laughing at himself. So far, he'd gone from her couch, to his and back to hers. He shook his head at the thought and she simply watched him in confusion.

"So, how did it go?"

House gave a thumbs down sign.

"Tell me."

He nearly snorted. Tell her. TELL her. He only wished he could just up and tell her. He didn't have his whiteboard on him, so he sat there and shrugged his shoulders.

Cuddy stood from her desk, grabbing a pad of paper and a pen and sat next to House, passing them to him.

"He said he'd eat when I talked."

Cuddy's eyes grew wide, "That's ridiculous! He can't do that."

House gave her a 'duh' look, scribbling, "I've tried. I just can't." He again tried to say Wilson's name and she watched with a broken heart as House attempted to talk, with nothing but air emitting from his lips.

She took the paper away and set it aside, taking his hand in hers, "It's okay. We'll get through this," she hesitated, unsure of how he would react to her next suggestion, "We can try the speech therapist."

He frowned and cocked an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Don't look at me like that. Would you like to see your file?"

He hadn't reviewed the specifics of his own case, afraid of what he might find. Afraid he might learn that the muteness was permanent, afraid he'd been lied to by the various doctors about his speech loss being psychosomatic. He wanted to believe it was true and he had tried on several occasions to speak while standing in front of the mirror, hoping each new effort would be a break through, but to no avail. And slowly, he nodded in the affirmative.

Cuddy pulled open her desk drawer and pulled out his file, handed it to him and said, "I'll leave you to read it here. I'll be back." House didn't look up from his file, but nodded in acknowledgement.

* * *

"Come in," Wilson said from behind his office door.

"We need to talk." Cuddy said, taking a seat opposite Wilson.

"He told you."

"You can't not eat Wilson. What if he really can't find his voice again?"

"Did you honestly think I wouldn't eat? I just won't eat in front of him."

"Wilson, you can't do this to him. Do you have any idea how much guilt he's carrying around? And you've lost what, twenty? Thirty pounds? I was there. Heart palpitations are a sign of severe anemia."

"I'm fine Cuddy."

"Let me at least run some labs. Just a little blood to put my mind at ease."

"And if I refuse?"

"I will have to consider whether or not you are mentally fit to work as a physician in this hospital. Your refusal to subject to routine blood tests, and the threat of refusing to eat can be grounds for suspension based on suicidal concerns."

"I'm not suicidal."

"Then take the blood test." She said, all kidding aside. She was absolutely serious.

Wilson looked at her momentarily, frustrated that she would pull rank on him, but he wanted to keep an eye on House. He wanted to be there, as he had promised himself he would be.

"Okay."

"Okay? That's it, you'll let me run the labs?"

"Yes. And you don't have to ask, House can look them over."

She was taken aback, not quite understanding his willingness to do this, "Why?"

"I said I would be there for him and I will be."

"You should tell him that. He thinks you hate him." She said.

Wilson looked her in the eye, surprised at her words, "He told you that?"

"He did, before he left the hospital. He was still pretty out of it, and he was still in and out t was shortly after we'd gotten the whiteboard for him. I don't think he realizes he said it."

With a sigh, he said, "I don't hate him. I hate the things he's done, the things he's said, I hate that she died. I hate public transportation and I hate that I was on call that night. But I don't hate him."

* * *

Cuddy stood outside her office and watched as House looked in a mirror, trying to speak. She couldn't hear him from outside her office, but it was clear by the look on his face that he wasn't having much success. She entered her office and he stopped to look up at her.

"Sure, go right ahead; I don't mind if you dig through my purse to borrow a mirror," She said playfully. House rolled his eyes, slightly embarrassed at being caught attempting to speak.

Her tone turned more serious, "I think you should take a few days off." He shook his head.

"House, you don't have a patient, you've been through a lot. You should take a few days and come back to work after the weekend."

Again he shook his head.

Cuddy sighed, "Wilson agreed to a blood draw." That, as she knew it would, grabbed his attention.

House nodded, apparently relieved. He then pulled out the pad of paper, several sheets now filled with his thoughts and he flipped four or five pages down and held the pad up for her to read. On it was a list of symptoms and circled at the bottom, it read, "Ulcer, anemia." House then flipped the page, "He needs an endoscopy. He's type O blood, at risk for duodenal ulcers. It would explain the anemia, which would explain the heart palpitations, irregular breathing, tiredness and I think he's been lightheaded a few times," House then picked up the pen and scribbled, "I want to see the lab results."

Her mind whirring from all that he had had written, Cuddy moved towards the couch and sat next to him, held his hand and looked him in the eye, "He'll be okay. Kutner's already running the blood." She gripped his hand and gave him a squeeze, "Let me see that," She said, motioning to the pad of paper. House shook his head, tucking the pad under his arm.

"House, let me see it," She said, holding her hand out.

"No." He wrote.

"Why not?"

"Patient ddx, confidentiality."

"So you're diagnosing yourself?" House closed his eyes. Bingo, she'd hit the jackpot, "Let me help. Come on House." Suddenly, he stood angrily and headed towards the door, with the pad of paper securely tucked beneath his arm.

"Okay, okay. Don't go, come sit. I won't ask to see it again," She now tread lightly, almost treating him like she would a child, afraid one wrong word would send him into a tantrum.

He turned to look at her, asking him with his eyes if she was being truthful and she nodded in return.

"You look exhausted House, why don't you take a break? Did you eat lunch?"

House thought for a moment and shook his head. In between the cab rides to and from Wilson's hotel and the furniture store that morning, plus making the new bed that the movers delivered, he realized that he had not eaten anything since the piece of toast earlier that morning. He flipped to an empty sheet of paper and scribbled, "Going to lunch. Coming?"

"I wish I could but I have a meeting in fifteen minutes. You should get off your feet for a while, sleep in your office if you won't let me take you home."

House rolled his eyes and Cuddy watched him walk away wondering if the snark would return, wondering if House would ever be House again. It seemed that he was becoming more withdrawn, receding into the confines of his own mind.

* * *

He bought a sandwich and headed back to his office where he sat down in his corner chair, placed his feet up on the ottoman and began to review his copious notes on both himself and on Wilson. Two bites into his sandwich, he was asleep.

He found himself on the bus again, though this time it was empty, save for Amber and Wilson. Amber sat at the back of the bus, House stood near the front windshield, marker in hand and Wilson, sporting a blue shirt and boring blue tie, sat in the middle. The bus was void of color, not the stark white he remembered from his last hallucination, nor the true color of the bus, but rather a muted, drab tan. He turned towards the large front windshield and raised his marker. House began to list his own symptoms on the board, intent on diagnosing his inability to speak.

On the windshield, he wrote:

- aphonia ?

- complex partial seizure

- brain bleed

- hearing loss

- Wilson loss

- Wilson lost Amber

- House lost Wilson

- Wilson hates House

- House should have died

As he finished writing, House notice his pen marked not in ink, but in blood. Each letter oozed blood, and at first, he used a single index finger to wipe away the drips. There were more drips than one finger could erase, so he used two fingers and then his whole hand, and when he one hand couldn't clean up the mess, he used both and found his ddx was completely smeared, blood everywhere. House looked down at his hands, both were stained in blood.

He staggered forward, palms up, asking Wilson for help, but Wilson turned away in disgust and began to make his way towards the back of the bus, towards her. House stood transfixed, standing mid bus, hands bloodied and when he glanced towards the rear of the bus, he saw her. Her clothing stained with bloody handprints, his handprints. The bloody handprints stood out against her drab tan outfit which caused her to otherwise blend into the background of the bus.

Wilson turned to look at House, "What have you done?"

He walked forward, eyes pleading with Wilson for his forgiveness. He placed his hands on Wilson's chest, and inhaled sharply, realizing Wilson too, now had bloody handprints on his clothing. His handprints, his fault.

He took the blood filled marker and scribbled on the window nearest him, "You're not eating. Now I'm killing you too."

"House," Wilson said, placing his hands on House's shoulders, he raised his voice, "HOUSE."


	7. Chapter 7

I think this story is winding down to an end now. One or two chapters left after this. Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Chapter 7

Wilson sat at his desk unable to stop thinking about what Cuddy had said earlier, her words haunting him, "He thinks you hate him." He kept replaying it over and over in his mind until finally, he stood from his desk and headed towards House's office.

As he approached, he could see House at the whiteboard, staring at his hands rather oddly. A feeling of unease settled over Wilson, almost a sense of dread as he opened the conference room door.

He stared at the whiteboard and read the words:

- aphonia ?

- complex partial seizure

- brain bleed

- hearing loss

- Wilson loss

- Wilson lost Amber

- House lost Wilson

- Wilson hates House

- House should have died

Wilson shook his head, turning his attention back to House. It was then that he noticed House's hands; they were bloody. House staggered forward, palms up, asking Wilson for help, but Wilson turned away, heading towards the phone on the desk. He dialed Cuddy.

"Get up here now. Bring Foreman," were the only words he could get out before House inched closer.

Wilson looked at him with sympathetic eyes, his heart hurting for his friend, "What have you done?" he asked.

House walked forward, eyes pleading with Wilson for his forgiveness; eyes which went unseeing, glazed. He placed his hands on Wilson's chest, and inhaled sharply. Wilson looked down and saw that his blue shirt now sported bloodstained handprints. House suddenly pulled away and turned to the glass wall that separated the office from the conference room, shaking his head, frantically writing, "You're not eating. Now I'm killing you too."

Wilson approached him, "House," he said, placing his hands on House's shoulders, he raised his voice, "HOUSE."

His stare remained glazed, "House, hey buddy, come on. Wake up. What have you done to yourself?" Wilson tried another tactic, "Listen to me, you are not killing me. Do you hear me? I'll eat, come one, wake up." Wilson began to tear up, the full impact of all that had happened in the past month finally hitting him. He looked at his friend and clearly saw the impact it had on him as well and it was then that it truly hit him, and the tears fell freely.

"House, do you hear me? Wake up dammit, I need you here. I can't lose you too."

Wilson reached his hands up, placing them on either side of House's ears and looked at him dead on. "Do you get that? You should NOT have died. I. Don't. Hate. You. Do you hear me? I never wished you dead. I'm sorry House, I really am." House looked Wilson in the eye, no longer on the bus, now seeing the man in the present before him. His heart racing, his breathing laborious, but none of it mattered, he had Wilson's forgiveness. House too allowed a few rogue tears to fall as an overwhelming sense of relief washed over him. He nodded, letting Wilson know that he had indeed heard and believed him.

Wilson reached his arms up and embraced his best friend, and House stiffened, uncomfortable in the hug, "Oh shut up and just give me a damned hug," Wilson said. House smiled and for a fleeting second, he relaxed and hugged Wilson back, giving his friend the reassurance Wilson so desperately needed.

"Sit," Wilson said, motioning for House to sit on the edge of the conference room table. He picked up House's hands by his wrists and looked them over, checking both but only finding a cut on his left palm, it would need stitches but it wasn't bad. He looked around and spotted a letter opener under the conference room table, likely the offending weapon.

He looked at House again, "That was no dream, was it?" House thought momentarily before shaking his head.

"We'll get you cleaned up an…" Wilson was interrupted by a stunned looking Cuddy standing at the door.

"House? Oh my god, Wilson, what happened? How badly is he hurt?" She turned to look at the whiteboard, her heart breaking as she read the words and as she turned to face them again, she saw those on the window too.

As Cuddy took in the sights in the room, Wilson detailed what happened, "He had a hallucination. I walked in and found him staring at his hands and writing on the glass. He knew he was talking with me, but his eyes were glazed over; he was in another place or time," Wilson paused to look at House in the eye, "But he's okay. We're going to be okay now."

"Cuddy approached House and examined his hands, "He's going to need sutures and a CT scan. When was your last tetanus?"

House shrugged and rolled his eyes as Cuddy began her barrage of caring and doctoring.

Wilson turned to look at Cuddy, "I'll suture him. We need to clean up what's written, no one needs to know about that." She nodded and moved to erase the whiteboard. Before she could finish, Foreman walked into the room.

"What's going on?" he asked, concerned.

"House had another hallucination. I want a full neuro exam and a CT, and I don't want the other fellows knowing about it. Make sure he has an updated tetanus too." Cuddy said.

"I'll take him down to the clinic to suture him, and then you can run your exam." Wilson said. Foreman nodded.

"Help me clean the glass, Foreman." Cuddy said as House and Wilson headed towards the elevator bay.

* * *

The two men sat in silence as Wilson stitched House's palm. He kept glancing at House, checking on his mental status once in a while, ensuring he was lucid and not off in some unknown part of his vast mind. Somehow Wilson knew he needn't worry; he hadn't seen House so relaxed, almost content, in a long time.

"You're taking the rest of this week off, no arguments and so am I. I'll stay at your place and we'll talk about what happens from here. I'd like you to see a speech therapist, and maybe a psychologist."

House frowned but nodded in agreement. Upon Wilson's tearful apology, House resolved to be on his best behavior with Wilson. He owed him that. He had more respect for Wilson than anyone he'd ever met and he wasn't sure if he would have been as forgiving had the rolls been reversed.

"Give me your arm," Wilson said, before giving him the tetanus shot.

House grabbed a pen from Wilson's pocket protector and began to write on the thin paper covering the exam table, "I know you don't hate me but do you know I don't hate you?"

Wilson looked up at House, surprised to read those words, "I had hoped you didn't. I understand if you don't trust me."

House furrowed his brow, "Why wouldn't I trust you?" he wrote.

"I caused this," Wilson said waving his arms around House's head, "Because of me, you're still hallucinating. You nearly died because of what I asked you to do. I should never have asked."

"I don't regret the surgery."

"How could you not?"

House looked around the room, avoiding Wilson's gaze before writing, "You got to say goodbye."

Wilson's eyes watered, though no tears fell, "I still had no right."

House shook his head, "You would have done the same for me." Wilson tilted his head slightly, raising his eyebrows. It was true, he would have.

Wilson smiled, "So, did you really steal a kiss from Cuddy?"

House smiled, half laughed and nodded.

Wilson shook his head, "So, what else have I missed?"

House shook his head, writing, "Later, I need to see Kutner."

"Why?"

"About a patient," House wrote.

"Okay, I'll send him in when Foreman's finished."

* * *

Cuddy and Foreman stood in the small clinic exam room. House sat in the corner chair, and Wilson sat on the exam table.

"CT looks good, no bleeds, the fracture is healing well. Neuro exam was normal. The hallucination was likely triggered by stress and over exertion. You should go home, take some time off. Absolutely no strenuous activity, you need to give your brain a chance to heal."

"Were you moving furniture this morning?" Wilson asked, suddenly suspicious.

House stared at his hands sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders.

"House, you can't be moving furniture," Cuddy said, angry with him for doing something so stupid.

He picked up the mini whiteboard that Cuddy had brought down, "Wilson needed a place to sleep."

"What was wrong with the couch?"

"He wets the bed."

Wilson started laughing, "Only when you dip my hand in a bowl of warm water in the middle of the night. The couch would have been fine."

"Can't have my best friend sleeping on the couch. Got you a bed."

"Don't you mean only friend?"

"Funny." House wrote, quickly looking at Wilson, giving him a mocked sneer.

Foreman turned to Cuddy, "If you need anything, just give me a call; he'll be fine as long as he doesn't have anymore near death experiences." and he headed out the door.

"Cuddy, before you send Kutner in, I'd like to talk with you," House wrote on the whiteboard. He looked up at Wilson, motioning for him to leave the room.

Wilson raised his eyebrows, smiling slightly, "Uh, okay. See you later House," and Wilson followed Foreman out the door.

House held up his index finger and curled it towards himself several times, beckoning Cuddy to come closer.

"House, you need to take better care of yourself, do understand? I've had about all I can take of you nearly dying," her tone changed from exasperated, overly caring to sarcastic in an instant, "We could put in a legal name change; Kenny has a nice ring to it."

House gave her an incredulous look with a hint of a smile touching the corners of his mouth. Without giving her any warning, he smiled furtively, cupped his hand behind her neck and pulled her in for another stolen kiss. She didn't fight it this time however, instead leaning into it, giving as good as she got.

"What if I did this?" she asked, nipping his ear lightly, "Or this?" she asked, kissing his neck. House closed his eyes, enjoying every second.

She pulled away and turned towards the door, leaving him wanting more. And then turning back towards him, she gave him her own sly smile, and dragged a finger down his chest, resting her hand on his belt buckle. Coyly, she said, "It's a shame mean old Dr. Foreman said no strenuous activity," and with that she walked out, sporting a broad grin, leaving House alone to cool off. He stood there with his chin tipped down towards his chest, as he exhaled forcefully through his nose, smiling at her audacity.


	8. Chapter 8

Okay, I have my own personal theory of what's been happening this season on House and I've tweaked it a bit and added it to this story, so to all the Huddy lovers, here's a twist I bet you weren't expecting (shoot, it's a twist I wasn't expecting!)…

**Chapter 8**

House sat in his living room with Wilson on the edge of his new bed, located feet away from where the chaise lounge had once been. They hadn't said much after leaving the hospital; neither felt the need to talk. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, but rather a reflective one, each deep in thought.

House agreed to take some time off and Wilson subjected himself to an endoscopy, administered by Chase; both men left the hospital exhausted by the day's events, yet simultaneously content at having renewed their friendship.

"So, what's for dinner?" Wilson quipped, knowing he couldn't get away with a piece of toast that evening.

House smiled, writing, "Steaks in the freezer, apple pie, canned corned beef hash, peanut butter."

Wilson pursed his lips, "How about Chinese?" House nodded.

Wilson dialed the phone and placed the order as House limped towards the door where he had thrown his backpack earlier. He retrieved it and plunked it on top of the coffee table, motioning for Wilson to join him on the couch. He opened the backpack and removed a patient file as Wilson sat next to him; he also removed a paper bag.

Opening the bag, he removed three pill bottles and lined them up on the coffee table before turning to look at Wilson.

Wilson read each one, "Amoxicillin, Prilosec, and iron." He sighed before continuing, "So, the endoscopy showed an ulcer and the blood work showed I'm anemic."

House nodded once, and offered him his file. Wilson shook his head refusing to take it, "I trust you."

House picked up the whiteboard, "Are you still taking your antidepressant?"

Wilson averted his eyes, "No."

House shook his head, writing, "Do you have it here?"

"It's in my bag."

"Take that too."

"Yes mom. And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"No more moving furniture, no work, no crazy surgeries suggested by idiot best friends, and no more hallucinogenics, no more buses and when you need a ride home from a bar, call my cell and only my cell. Got it?"

House's heart dropped when he heard that last bit and he simply nodded in agreement.

"And start speaking to me; I'm tired of imagining your snark."

House smiled, writing, "You aren't capable of imagining MY snark."

Wilson chuckled, turned the television on and the two watched mindlessly until the food arrived. When it did, they ate on the couch, Wilson downed his pills, and House watched him sharply until he was satisfied he had eaten enough, though he noted it wasn't nearly the amount he could pack away before the accident.

Wilson cleaned up and House headed towards his room, holding up the whiteboard as he walked away, "Night Wilson," it read.

"Night House." Wilson took his place on the new bed and slept a dreamless night.

* * *

House walked down the corridor searching each exam room, unable to find what he was looking for. Wilson stood at the other end, calling out to him, encouraging him to hurry up and find what he was looking for. He checked room after room and finally found himself in front of Cuddy's office.

He entered and found her standing behind her desk, "House, just talk."

He shook his head, unable to find the words, scribbling, "I can't," on the whiteboard.

"Stop lying to yourself."

"I'm not lying," he said.

"Everybody lies," Cuddy said, approaching him. She lowered her voice, "You just did. Say it again."

"I'm NOT lying," House said, louder.

"Do you hear yourself?" She asked.

House sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for air, waking from his overly vivid dream. It couldn't be that simple, could it? House opened his mouth, preparing himself to say the words he had said in his dream. He mouthed, "I'm not lying," but much to his dismay, no words came out. He leaned back against his pillow, defeated.

Not wanting to face Wilson's inevitable speech recovery plan, House stayed in bed until he heard Wilson rummaging about the kitchen. He hoped he was busy making breakfast and hoped even more that Wilson would eat it. He eventually made his way to the bathroom, downed a couple of pain pills and stared at himself in the mirror, again trying to speak but to no avail.

House made his way out to the kitchen and found Wilson making omelets and heating the can of corned beef hash on the stove. The coffee pot was full, Wilson's bed was made and the empty Chinese food cartons had been cleared from the living room.

"Thought you might like breakfast," Wilson said, offering him a cup of coffee.

House nodded, accepting the cup. He left the kitchen to retrieve his whiteboard, writing, "Thanks," on it before returning to the kitchen. They ate breakfast standing at the kitchen island and House was glad to see Wilson eating more than a toddler's sized portion. He couldn't be sure, but he thought Wilson was eating to appease him, not out of hunger, though it didn't matter so long as he was eating.

"Did you take your pills?" he asked via the whiteboard.

"Yes. You're not going to get on my case every time I need to take a pill are you?"

"It's my job," House wrote.

"No, it's not."

House shot him a glance meaning he wouldn't talk about it further and Wilson changed the subject, "Cuddy's stopping by in a little while, says she's got a present for you."

House raised an eyebrow, unsure of how he should respond. He wondered exactly what kind of present she had for him. He allowed his mind to briefly wander, hoping her present might have a little something to do with an entirely too small school girl uniform but reality came crashing down on him when he realized her gift was more likely a speech therapist. He grimaced at the thought.

"Headache?" Wilson asked.

House nodded, writing, "It's not bad."

"Why don't you go lie down, I'll clean up here." House nodded and headed towards his room.

* * *

"He's sleeping," Wilson said, letting Cuddy into the apartment.

"Good. Listen, would you mind if I talked with him alone for a while?"

"Not a problem. I need to run to the store anyway, House's idea of food is canned, frozen or boxed."

Cuddy smiled, "He's got steaks in the freezer."

"I know, I took them out already. Okay, see you in a bit."

"Thanks Wilson," she said, closing the door after him.

Cuddy walked into House's bedroom and sat down on the empty side of the bed, removed her shoes and laid down on her side, propping her head up on her left elbow, over the extra pillow. She watched House sleep and closed her eyes listening to the pattern of his breathing. She placed her head down on the pillow and using the hand that had been tucked under her head, she reached over and ran her fingers across his scalp, to just behind his ear, feeling the small scar beneath. Her right hand lay across her stomach.

House reached his right hand over and took hold of the hand resting on her stomach and she leaned in and kissed him gently on the forehead.

"Morning." She said. He smiled genuinely at her.

"Do you know what I miss?" She asked. He nodded; he missed it too.

"I miss this. I miss your voice, I miss your rude comments, and I miss hearing you complain, snark, berate, yell, cajole, laugh. I miss you arguing with me," she laughed, "I never thought I'd say that."

"And do you know what I wish?" He shook his head.

"I wish that we had told Wilson about us before the accident; I wish he knew why I chose to stay with you and not with him at her bedside that night. I wish I had stayed at the bar with you instead of answering that page. I should have had a drink instead of coffee and forced you to take a cab home with me; then none of this would have happened."

He shook his head and scribbled, "It's not your fault," on the pad of paper he kept on the nightstand. He took her hand in his and squeezed.

House closed his eyes, unable to keep from thinking about that night. Sometimes during his hospital stay, he had figured out exactly why he was at that bar; he was with Cuddy. They had been seeing each other in secret, meeting at out of the way rendezvous bars starting shortly after Wilson began dating Amber. It started as a dare. She knew he missed Wilson's company, so she invited him for a drink one evening after work and bet him that he wouldn't show up, but he did, just to prove her wrong. A few drinks led to a few laughs and a few laughs led to his apartment. They didn't speak much about it, choosing instead to ignore the absurdity of it all. There had always been an attraction between the two, and of course there was that time years ago when they had gotten together. She enjoyed her little secret, and she knew he enjoyed it too.

House made a few hints here and there at work, slyly mentioning how he was doing his taxes and Cuddy, or of course his constant mention of her anatomy. And Sweetsauce, oh and Sweetsauce. It was so like House to use their safeword at work; he'd paid for that one when she refused to meet with him that night. He'd called her anyway, making her smile with his, "What are you wearing?" comment; they both had a reality check though when she realized she should have stopped him that day. She worked at separating her personal feelings from her work related responsibilities from that moment forward, as evidenced by going over his head when Foreman had approached her regarding Amber's case.

And then it happened, one of her worst nightmares. She thought she'd actually lost him with the heart attack. She wanted nothing more than to hold him and keep him from harm after the reenactment, but he would have nothing of it when he realized it was Amber on that bus with him. As if the heart attack and head injury weren't enough, then he had the seizure and she was sure she'd lost him for good. The weeks of rehab clearly had marked him as a very different man, seemingly forever trapped in his guilt and she spent every possible moment by his side, reassuring him, helping him, loving him. She was grateful that he allowed her to hold his hand at the hospital, not shying away from that small display of public affection. She needed him as much as he needed her, her own guilt resonating deep within. Cuddy's guilt kept her from saying anything about that night, knowing House was at that bar because of her. She had no idea of course, how he came to be on the bus or how Amber factored into any of it, and she felt ashamed for not having said anything. She was so busy with the onslaught of the bus passengers that she hadn't put two and two together initially. If she had mentioned the bar earlier, House might have recalled that it was Amber on that bus and if he had remembered it sooner, she might still be alive. What rested heavily on her heart was that had she mentioned her presence at the bar earlier, House might still be speaking.

House watched Cuddy as she ran through the thoughts of that night in her mind. He could see her anguish and watched as a single tear spilled from the corner of her eye, disappearing into the pillow. He took his bandaged left hand and placed it on her cheek, and used his good hand to cup the other cheek and he stared intently into her eyes, shaking his head, willing her to stop beating herself up over the accident.

She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his, "I'm so sorry." She began to repeat herself and he silenced her with a kiss.

He pulled away and with a smirk, he scribbled, "So, where's my present?"

She smiled, "I'm right here."


	9. Chapter 9

My little theory that I threw in there was the bit about House and Cuddy having a secret relationship none of us really knew about, based on little comments/intriguing interactions/looks throughout the season (interesting how he hallucinated Cuddy in that skimpy outfit). I don't really believe it, but I wouldn't be surprised if we learn about it next season.

The bit about Cuddy being at the bar…that was just a fun plot twist to perk things up. Sorry it took longer to post this than I expected; it took me a while to tweak the ending. I hope it works…

**Chapter 9, final chapter**

Wilson sat on his knees, as he had so many times before, and waited until his toes were numb. He glanced at the now wilted white rose, "You were right," he said, dragging a finger across the letters of her name. He thought for a moment, recalling her last words.

"_It's not his fault."_

"_How can you say that? If he hadn't been drunk, if he had acted like a responsible adult for once in his life…" Wilson's voice trailed off._

_She smiled, her eyes seeing not the seasoned oncologist, but a man whose heart was cloven in two, "He was there with Dr. Cuddy, but she was paged to the hospital." She smiled a knowing smile, "They're dating."_

"_He would have told me," his eyes watered as realization set in, instantly choosing not to tell Amber as it would only hurt her; this new pain was his own weight to bear. Wilson had paged Cuddy that night. He was on call and had been brought in for an emergency case and he needed Cuddy's approval for a risky procedure. If only he hadn't paged her._

"_Would he? Did you tell him about us right away?"_

_Wilson raised his eyebrows, "No."_

_She smiled faintly, "He was drunk and couldn't keep his mouth shut on the bus." She looked up at him, sighing weakly, "He used my scarf to tie around my leg before he blacked out."_

"_I can't think about him right now." Wilson knew the blame did not rest solely on House, in fact he decided that the blame rested only on himself, but he needed someone to be angry at. He needed to blame House for his reckless ways, for his drinking, for his drug addiction, for his incessant need to know the answer. He couldn't focus on House, he needed to focus on her._

"_He must really love you."_

"_House doesn't love anyone."_

"_He didn't put his life on the line for me, he did it for you; he did everything he could. He does love you."_

"_I don't love him."_

"_Yes you do. Don't walk away from him, he needs you now and you're going to need him."_

"_Amber, I can't. If he hadn't been drinking…" and Wilson silently thought, 'And if I hadn't paged Cuddy…'_

"_He's given me one more chance to see you," she looked into his eyes, accepting her fate, "I'm not alone. Don't turn your back on him."_

_She looked up at him, "Hold me." Wilson eased himself into her hospital bed, wrapping his arms around her as gently as possible. He held her, savoring every last moment, listening to her breathing, smelling her hair, remembering the arch of her brow, the shape of her nose. He wondered how she could be so forgiving and why she wasn't angry._

_All too soon she sighed, "I'm tired." His heart dropped when she said, "I think it's time to go to sleep."_

"_Just a little longer."_

Remembering her last moments, he placed a bouquet of wildflowers across her grave, saying "God I miss you, Amber. You were right. You were always right. What would I have done if I'd lost you both?" Wilson prepared to admit the truth, to release that bit of information that he'd held onto since that night, that little tidbit that had burned a hole in his stomach.

His voice dropped to a whisper, "I was the one to page Cuddy away. If I hadn't called her, she would have stayed at that bar with House, you would perfectly fine and he would have his voice."

* * *

"Wilson will be back soon," she said, still lying on her side next to him. House nodded.

"Should we say anything?"

House stared at her and sighed, not knowing if they should or not. He picked up the pad of paper, writing, "I don't want to lie to him."

"Okay."

He raised one eyebrow and one corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile, writing, "We have time for a quickie."

She rolled her eyes, "You're incorrigible," she said, getting out of bed. He stuck out his bottom lip, pretending to pout.

He scribbled another message, "Live dangerously, join me 4 a shower?"

"House! He's going to be back any minute, and you're not supposed to engage in any physically demanding activity, remember?"

House raised both eyebrows and conceded, "True, you are physically demanding," making no efforts to hide the fact that he was overtly staring at her chest in between each written word.

"What's gotten in to you today?" She asked. He sported an amused smirk and shrugged his shoulders.

"Get out of bed, get dressed and wipe that smirk off your face," she said, playfully walking towards the living room. She was happy to see a little hint of the old House coming back.

House stood, picked up his cane and in just a few impressive strides, joined Cuddy in the hallway. He leaned his cane against the wall, whipped her around to face him and placing both hands on either side of her face, he pulled her in for a deep and commanding kiss.

* * *

Wilson used his key to open the apartment door, stepped inside, and placed the bags down while he closed the door behind him. Lifting the bags up, he glanced down the hallway and caught sight of House and Cuddy mid kiss. Blushing he headed towards the kitchen.

Cuddy smiled sheepishly and pulled out of the kiss, resting her forehead on House's shoulder. He closed his eyes and softly chuckled at being caught, though he was somewhat worried about Wilson's reaction. The pair walked out to the kitchen, cautiously hoping he would accept this new development.

"I'm sorry, I I I…," Wilson stammered.

"Wilson, there's something we'd like to tell you." Cuddy offered Wilson a glass of iced tea, "Maybe we should sit in the living room."

"Sure," Wilson had a distinct feeling that this conversation would be exactly what Amber had mentioned that night. He took a deep breath, ready for what may come. House and Wilson sat on either ends of the couch, leaving a cushion between them. Cuddy sat on the edge of Wilson's new bed, facing them.

She steadied herself, ready to explain it all, "When you first star…"

House made a big show, waving his arms and sighing at the start of her little speech and he held up the whiteboard for both Wilson and Cuddy to see, "I'm doing the boss."

"Nothing like being blunt, House." Cuddy snapped.

House waved his hand and shook his head before writing, "No wait, I WAS doing the boss. She's withholding sex right now." He paused to erase the small board and began writing again, "She's boycotting mute cripples with cracked skulls." House held his breath, anxiously awaiting Wilson's response.

Wilson looked between House and Cuddy, aware that this was House's gesture of honesty, "Well, if mute misanthropic cripples who hallucinate because of cracked skulls can find love, then there's hope for the rest of the poor saps in this world."

House cocked an eyebrow, half smiling as he wrote, "Nice." He found it difficult to make sarcasm come across in one word sentences but hoped Wilson would pick up on it. Wilson smiled briefly; the sarcasm did not go unnoticed.

"Wilson, there's more to it than that," Cuddy braced herself, "We started seeing each other not long after you and Amber started dating."

Wilson said nothing. He made no outward indication that he was angry, upset, happy or otherwise, so she continued, "And that night, I was there. I was there with House at the bar." She closed her eyes as tears began to form, "If I hadn't left…" she inhaled sharply, trying to keep her sobs at bay, "Every single day I think about how you lost her, and how I nearly lost him, but he's here," she said before losing herself to her own guilty thoughts, hiding her face with her hands. Neither Wilson nor House had realized how much guilt rested on her shoulders.

"Cuddy," Wilson began empathetically, "I was the one who paged you. Don't you see? If I had just waited half an hour before paging you, none of this would have happened. It's my fault."

House slammed his hand down on the coffee table, angry that Wilson was once again blaming himself and now Cuddy too. He thought they'd agreed that none of it was anyone's fault, that it was just a rotten string of uncontrollable circumstances. Both Wilson and Cuddy turned to look at him and he held up the whiteboard.

"And it's MY fault for being at that bar in the first place."

Wilson shook his head, "No House, we went over this. It was _not_ your fault," he turned his attention to Cuddy, "And it's not your fault, don't you dare think that."

House scribbled furiously, "It was not your fault either."

"Yes, it was."

House stared at Wilson sensing there was something being unsaid, when it dawned on him. He closed his eyes briefly in understanding before writing, "You knew."

Wilson placed his elbows on his knees, and his head into his hands, nodding.

"House? I'm not following," Cuddy said, confused.

He scribbled out a hurried message, "He knew we were at the bar together."

"How?" she asked.

Wilson looked to her, "Amber. She said he was drunk and wouldn't shut up. She tried to tell me," Wilson looked up at the ceiling, wishing he had listened to her, "She told me not to walk away from you, that it wasn't your fault, but I was so angry..."

"Wilson, you can't beat yourself up like this," she said before looking to House for some support.

House looked confused, writing, "Why don't I remember telling her?"

"I don't know, maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the seizure occurred before the memory resurfaced," Wilson looked at House, "I'm so sorry. I should have been there," he closed his eyes again, reliving that night, "If I hadn't paged Cuddy, Amber would still be here and you would be fine." Wilson shook his head, as he could no longer keep his tears in, "And if I hadn't blamed you, hated you...," his breathing became ragged, "I should have been there."

Wilson felt his heart pick up speed, palpitating again. He tried to regulate his breathing, taking deep breaths, waiting for the pounding in his chest to pass. He closed his eyes, and blocked out all other sounds as he tried to calm his heart; suddenly he felt a strong hand on his shoulder. House now sat next to him and again pointed towards his own eyes, trying to get him to focus.

"Dammit Wilson," House rasped, "It's not your fault. Look at me, come on, slow, deep breaths. In, out. That's it." Wilson stared at him in shock and Cuddy walked towards them the instant she heard his voice, her eyes wet with tears.

House continued in his coarse, long unused voice, apparently unaware of his new found ability, "You're killing yourself over this. This is the root of your ulcer and the reason you can't eat. You need to let this go. This isn't your fault. Do you hear me?"

Wilson's heart finally returned to its regular pattern, no longer feeling as though it would beat out of his chest. Now however, he felt his adrenaline building, never so glad in all of his life to hear the voice of his best friend, albeit a strained echo from disuse.

"Hey, do you hear me?" House repeated.

Wilson smiled, "Do you hear yourself?" House shook his head.

"You're talking."

House glanced at Cuddy and back to Wilson, afraid to believe it was true. She moved to the other side of him, sandwiching House between them on the couch, and she picked up his hand encouragingly as he tentatively attempted his first consciously determined word.

"Wilson," he croaked. House closed his eyes and squeezed Cuddy's hand, relief washing over him.

Wilson asked, "Why now?"

Cuddy looked at him through happy tears. She shook her head, not fully understanding it herself, "It was psychosomatic. House always had the ability, but I think," she paused, meeting House's gaze, "You were so worried about Wilson that you finally just let go."

House nodded before turning his attention back to Wilson, "I…I," he tested his voice, not quite trusting it yet, "None of this was your fault."

Wilson squared his shoulders, "This isn't something I will forget and it's not something that will just go away. I'm dealing with it," and with a nod he added, "I'm here and I'm not going anywhere."

House leaned back against the couch, relieved at having his voice back and even more relieved knowing what was at the root of Wilson's self destructiveness; now that he had identified the source, they could manage it.

House looked on at his best friend, again squeezing Cuddy's hand and in a grateful, raspy voice he said, "I know."

Fin.


End file.
